This Modern Love Wastes Me
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: "Sometimes I wonder about you, Sherlock."  "You say that often," I smirk, "So it's a wonder how often you think of me. I'm flattered, John, really." .:. Johnlock drabbleshot collection following a vague plotline. Fluff and angst, friendship and romance.
1. 00: Normal and Abnormal

**A/N: Once again, music proves to be better for inspiring my writing than much of anything else. XD**

**Sherlock's POV because I like it. Also, there is no real plot or goal for this fic besides Johnlock lovin', so. I dunno, don't expect a lot? It is a drabbley collection, after all.**

**Anyway.**

**Now shh, just read.**

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><p><em>Don't get offended<em>

_If I seem absent-minded_

_Just keep telling me facts_

_And keep making me smile_

_Don't get offended_

_If I seem absent-minded_

_(I get tongue-tied)_

_Baby, you've got to be more discerning_

_I've never known what's good for me_

_Baby, you've got to be more demanding_

_I will be yours…_

"This Modern Love;" Bloc Party.

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><p>00. Normal and Abnormal<p>

It has been repeatedly brought to my attention that John and I do not share a "normal" relationship for two flatmates who are also friends. I have never out much thought into it – I simply shrugged off the remarks or ignored them altogether, choosing not to state any sort of opinion, because, in truth, I have no opinion on the subject since it is, clearly, _not my area_ – but as of late, I have no choice _but _to address it.

According to nearly every person who sees John and I interact in any way, shape, or form, they jump to the immediate conclusion that he and I are romantically together. An innkeeper implied that John and I sleep together. John complained that one of his girlfriends – I have forgotten which, but perhaps it was Janette? Or someone with a name similar to that? It isn't important to me what her name is – said that he is a "good boyfriend," but directly stated that she meant he is a good boyfriend to _me. _

And there have been countless other misunderstandings. Even Mrs. Hudson had the wrong idea when we first moved in together. But is it really so uncommon for two men to live and work together? It shouldn't be. University students split rent for dorms and flats, and they attend the same institution. Is it not the same for John and I? We work on criminal cases together and aren't wealthy enough on our own to pay for an entire flat, so we share. And, naturally, with all that time spent together, we have become friends.

That is normal, isn't it? It seems "normal" by my understanding of the term.

However, I suppose one could argue that John and I are oddly co-dependent on one another. But wouldn't one friend also willingly give their life for their other friend? That is what people do when they care about someone, isn't it? They risk what they must in order to protect. It is love, I suppose, but nothing like the sentiment every one implies.

I do care for John. If I have ever cared for any person, it would be John. Mrs. Hudson reminds me a bit of my grandmother and Mummy, and therefore, I care about her as well. And though it pains me to admit it, I would be troubled by Mycroft's death, because he was, so many years, a decent older brother.

So what is this miscommunication with every person we meet? Can't they see, can't they understand, that nothing is amiss between John and I? We are functional flatmates. We are good friends. I trust him, and he me. We care for the other's safety. We do well as colleagues. We are each other's closest friend.

And there is nothing wrong with any of that.


	2. 01: Cold Cases and Strawberries

01. Cold Cases and Strawberries

"We're just about out of milk," John announces one afternoon. "I'm going to head out and buy some. We could use some bread and cheese, and I think more eggs couldn't hurt. I'll be back soon."

"Hmm," I hum, nodding slightly. I only barely hear him; I've been trying to pay more attention to when he goes out, because John gets angry with me when I decide things while he's away, thinking he was listening the entire time, and then expect him to understand what, to him, is a concept out of the blue. I clear my throat, focusing my thoughts, and add, "Would you get strawberries?"

"Strawberries?" John questions as he slips on his jacket. He looks at me strangely. "I didn't know you liked strawberries."

"Love them," I murmur offhandedly. "Rarely treat myself to them, because while they are nutritionally beneficial, they are more expensive during the off-season, which is usually when I want them. So, if you please, strawberries. I will pay you back for them if you like."

"No, it's fine," John says with a slight laugh. "I'm just glad you want to eat something. It's been two days, and you've been running on coffee, tea, and patches again."

"Mm," I hum again, turning my attention back to my thoughts. There isn't a case at the moment, only cold cases I mooched off of Lestrade. He said to, 'have at them,' because he doubts even I can solve cases that have been dead for years. I am a bit bored, but I mainly have the need to prove him wrong. I like a challenge, particularly verbal, scoffing ones made by ignorant (but handy) police officers. And, of course, Donavan scoffed as well, and that gave me all the more reason to take them. I like spiting her; it's entertaining to see the angered, defeated look on her face when I do.

"Well, I'm going out, then. See you soon," John announces again, and soon he's out the door and down the stairs. I refrain from moving to watch him walking outside the front window.

I pick up one of the manila folders and flip through the pages, looking at photos, picking up its matching evidence box and poking through it, aligning the visuals with the text. Despite not speaking to any of the witnesses (and why would I need to? The witness statements and interrogations are all here, and what's more, I would only need them at the time of the crime in order to see their tells; it does me no good to observe them now), I can place at least one of the cold cases: the neighbor did it. I will have to prove it for Lestrade, but that shouldn't be too difficult. It's written all over this that he did it; they were just too stupid to trust the (clearly) false alibi, _again. _

I ruffle through a few more, pausing to think here and there, staring at others, reading and rereading over and over again, handling the evidence with gloves and inspecting it with my lens and, for certain pieces and bits flaked off of the materials, my microscope.

I draw out maps in my head of the different cases, and in no time at all, John is back at the flat. I don't notice him entering, putting away groceries, or hanging up his jacket until he's behind me, peering over my shoulder, his scent suddenly around me. And then, as I blink, about to tell him what I've found thus far, his voice rings in my ear.

"Hey, I think I remember this case form the papers a while back! God, how many years since this one's been cracked open? It was before I left for Afghanistan, and that was… well, a while ago," he reiterates, sounding awed. "Have you nearly solved it? Can the re-open the case without new evidence?"

"For me they can, because they didn't have me before. Besides, I can gather new data from old evidence, more often than not, and that is all that's necessary to crack the case open again and get warrants for arrest. It's a new finding regardless of how it was found, after all," I murmur, but I feel a bit abnormal with him standing so close. "Did you get my strawberries?"

"I did," John informs me as he stands up and leans away. "Want them now? I'll wash them for you. Do you like yours with sugar or honey?"

"Neither," I answer. "Unless they are especially under-ripe and sour, I prefer their natural sweetness."

"Well, that won't be a problem; I made sure to get the reddest ones I saw," John comments as he heads into the kitchen for a spell. I hear running water, and then the chopping of a knife. When John returns, all the green, leafy tops have been removed and there is a small fork in the bowl of cheery reddish-pink berries. "Here you are," he says, and his fingertips brush my knuckles when he pulls away. He seems not to notice in the slightest, and I don't know why I am bothering to notice myself.

"Thank you," I say politely, knowing it's the right thing to say. I stab one and bring it to my lips, and the burst of flavor is precisely how I remember it, how somehow better. The smell of strawberries is strong, and for a moment, I lose track of the cold case files and am filled solely with the minute pleasure of a good thing.

John seems to notice how I'm relishing the strawberries, because he's smiling at me again, in that funny way he does when he sees me behave perfectly humanly. He chuckles softly and moves to sit down across from me at the desk. "So, have you solved this one, then? I remember thinking it was such a tragedy, those two little girls dying like that, and no one being caught to bring their deaths to justice."

"Ah, yes," I reply, coming back from my temporary stupor. I should eat more often; at least strawberries if anything else. I forgot how much I do love them. "I think I've got it. It's not one of the more difficult ones because there is plenty of evidence here… I'm just missing the one thing the police was missing: what links it all together. It's certainly not their parents, extended family, or neighbors – the most common of suspects – because while children dying or being harmed is often linked to Munchausen By Proxy or pedophilia, neither is the case here. It could almost appear as an accidental drowning in their kiddie pool, but…"

"But?" John prods, and he looks keenly interested in my thoughts, as he always is. He's leaning toward me, hand to his chin, on his face, elbow on the desktop. His eyes are watching me closely, flickering to my lips now and again in anticipation of my words. I like that he looks at me like that, with such admiration and pride, like he's proud to be associated with me, and genuinely finds me fascinating.

I smirk a little as I glance down and away, hiding the half-grin as I bring up some photos to show him. Turning back to John, my face perfectly composed, I add, "_But _there are these. Now, doctor, how else could they be bruised ever so lightly along the collarbones and shoulder blades unless they were pinned down? The police and coroner at the time thought the bruises were accounted for by the uneven ground of the pool, little rocks and the like, but I beg to differ. If one pinned the other as children do in 'dunking,' then one would be alive. But they both have it, on mirroring sides, and it can only indicate that one individual held them below the water. But who, if not someone in the immediate vicinity, like a parent or neighbor?"

John studies the photos for a long moment, but soon he's squinting. He shakes his head. He picks up a capped pen and points. "Two people," John corrects. He swirls the pen around a few more areas difficult to see in the photo, but are not mistakes on the picture. I blink, surprised I hadn't caught them. "See these here? It wasn't one set of hands, but four. Two people did drown the girls. The second set is a bit smaller, though, than the first, which is why it's difficult to find. But if you say the parents didn't do it…"

"Of course!" I gasp, leaning back in my chair and smiling. I can feel my eyes lighting up along with the rush in my brain. "Brilliant, John!" I laugh a bit and turn to him, shaking one of his shoulders cheerfully. "Once again, your medical eye has enabled me to come to the right conclusion! Do you remember this cold case?" and I bring another to the table, spreading it open and out. "A boy drowned at his school pool during a swim class. It seemed like a routine accident, but then, there are these light bruises that the police also put off as wounds made by the struggle the boy had while drowning, because there are plenty of ways to injure oneself in a public pool, but now it all makes sense!"

"How?" John asks, and of course he shouldn't be so daft, but I don't mind explaining it to them.

"The _children, _John! They attended the same school, and both cases happened within three years of the other. No one ever put the two together because it wasn't suspicious enough to be murder. But it _is. _It's _serial _murder. The children attended the same school and must have had the same swimming instructor who had a junior lifeguard always in attendance with him. A man and a younger boy were caught not five years ago for attempting to drown a young boy at the beach, supposedly playing with him, but the older man was charged with attempted murder and put away for a few years. He was a swimming teacher at the very school our previous victims attended. No one ever made the connection, but now I think we can safely bring these bruises and link to his young accomplice and will ensure both of them will be put away for good – especially now that his little helper is older – and finally seal the case!"

"That's bloody fantastic thinking, Sherlock!" John says enthusiastically, and stands and gives me a congratulatory slap on the back. I grin and start collecting up the two cases and putting them together, scribbling onto a Post-It note the solution and shorthand of the evidential support. And with conveniently coupled victims, I have solved, at once, two cold cases over a decade old.

John and I beam for a moment as our joint success, and I pop another strawberry into my mouth. There is something about this moment that is casual, somehow commonplace between us, and yet I feel the need to file this moment away for future revisiting.

I'm complimented again, and I'm tempted to remind John that his input aided my conclusion, but I don't. I take the compliment, finish my strawberries, and let John take the bowl away.


	3. 02: Darts and Dates

02. Darts and Dates

I throw another dart and frown when I miss my mark. I take up another and launch it through the air, nimble fingers gripping the dart just-so, and my arm flowing steadily in motion. I watch the dart fly before sticking right on my mark. "Yes!" I grin, and I let fly another. It goes whizzing past John's head as he walks into the room.

"What the –!" John sputters, startled, and jerks backward. "That almost hit me!"

"But it didn't," I remind as I squint at my target and launch another. This time it hits just shy of my mark, but with a dart already where I want it, I don't mind. I lick my lips and smile. "Like my dartboard, John?"

"Is that – is that a photo of Mycroft?" John says, and suddenly he's laughing like it's the most hilarious thing in the world. I fail to see how it's _that _funny; it amuses me, of course, because I'm tossing darts at my brother, namely aiming for his eyes and forehead, but how it's funny to John, I don't understand.

"What's wrong with this? I was bored, I found a photo of him, and thought I might practice my darts. I was rusty, but I'm perfect at it, now. Give me a place to aim, and I'll reach it."

"His little mole," John smirks. "I dare you to hit that in one go."

"I was planning on aiming for that eventually, anyhow," I say. I aim the dart, send it zooming, and watch it hit directly in the spot. It's easier to aim a gun and account for wind and distance and the like, in my opinion. Something about the power, feel, and makings of a gun seemingly more adaptable to me. But darts are simple enough once you get a knack for it.

John applauds me and shakes his head. "Marvelous," he says, still grinning. "Oh, I would hate to see the look on his face if he knew you did this to his photo, though. He would be heartbroken."

"Nonsense," I correct with less of an edge than I would normally have while talking about my older brother. "He acts as though he worries about me, but he has less emotion in him than I do, if you can believe it, and more of an ego, if you can believe _that_. So all this would do is knock his ego down a peg, somewhat closer to normal standards. Also, he might even smile or laugh, because if you can laugh about it, I'm sure he could."

"Sometimes I wonder about you, Sherlock," John remarks as he takes a seat.

"You say that often," I smirk, "So it's a wonder how often you think of me. I'm flattered, John, really."

He makes a sort of snorting sound and looks away. "Ass. I obviously didn't mean it like that."

I choose not to reply and instead throw another dart, this time aiming for his big nose. Mycroft takes the hit, and I can nearly imagine him scrunching his nose in distaste. Daddy would be disappointed about my doing this, but Mummy would have laughed, I think. She understood what it meant to have annoying older brothers; she told me so all the time (but then again, she also said immediately afterward, "As annoying as they are, you must still love them, no matter what." And I suppose I've kept to that. Almost. Nearly…).

"You're going on a date tonight, then?" I comment as casually as possible as I retrieve my darts to start again. By the way he's dressed, there is no other explanation.

John clears his throat. "No, not – n-not really. I, uh, had hoped we would get something to eat, though."

My hand freezes on the dartboard, my wrist skimming a curled end of Mycroft's picture. I spin around to look at John questioningly.

He explains, "There's nothing in the house, and I don't want to go shopping just yet. Plus, I thought we might celebrate; there are six court cases being planned because you re-opened and essentially solved seven different cold case files, two of which turning out to be the same case. It's extraordinary. So I thought, I dunno, we should commemorate it? It's an impressive feat, after all. No one else in the world could do something like that. No one but you."

And there it is again, that pleased look on his face that shows me how much he admires my skills, and how he knows no one else fully appreciates them but he. I wipe the blank look of momentary confusion from my face and shrug it off. "Sure, if you like. You can even choose where we eat; hardly matters to me, since I don't feel much like eating."

John shakes his head. "No, that won't do. Half the time you say you won't eat, I get something you like and you take half of mine. So I'm buying you dinner, and that's that." And he sounds very resolute about it, so I let him have this trivial thing.

I nod once and ask him when he wants to leave. He says within the hour, because he's hungry. I don't protest. This is for John, I tell myself, because he feels that this is what people do when they succeed in something, they treat themselves, and I can't say I would ever deny him something he did earn. So I play along, and I ignore the voice in my head that is saying, 'You deduced that he was going out on a date. The fact that he's eating dinner with you doesn't change this deduction; only makes it more concrete.'

But we do, naturally, wind up enjoying ourselves. I eat a decent portion of my meal, and it does taste good, and John is happy to see me eat. And I get him to laugh more than once, and he gets me to crack a smile just as often.

And, for once, when the waiter sends us a look that implies we're together, John doesn't say anything; and maybe he doesn't even notice, his paranoia adverted. Either way, once we leave, John sends me a warm look and thanks me for coming.

As if I would have turned him down.


	4. 03: Watching and Lying

03. Watching and Lying

"Am I really that interesting?" John muses as he glances up from his laptop. Looking back down at it and typing away in his search-and-peck method, he goes on, "Because you've been staring at me for the past half hour. You haven't turned a page at all in your medical textbook."

I look down at the tomb in my hands and realize he's right. I hadn't even noticed how my eyes have been wandering up from the same two pages for the past thirty minutes. Time is almost as vague as emotions, and sometimes, I hardly notice when time has passed at all. (Other times, when I am bored off my arse without a case, time feels like it never ends.)

"I find your method of typing to be inefficient, but telling of your personality," I remark on the spot. I don't even think I'm lying until I say it. Automatic responses for me are usually blunt truths, but this one is too quick. I have already observed and recounted to myself all about how foolish-looking John's typing is, how it takes forever to do, and how it shows his hesitancy with technology and the like, so I shouldn't be bringing it up now. The truth is, I was only watching John for the sake of, well, _watching_ him.

I like to watch John sometimes, when he doesn't notice. I will look at him through the mirror, studying his face as he slips on his jacket or checks his hair. I will, occasionally, even watch him when he reads or sips his coffee or cleans his gun (I particularly am fascinated by this, because while I know how to clean, take apart, and reassemble a gun in record time – born of boredom in the past – John likes to take his time. He does it all with care, and routinely, obviously from his time spent as a military man).

John is, quite simply, fascinating to watch. He is plainly human and average in everything he does, but at the same time, he does each activity in a way that is unique to him. His little quirks, I suppose, are what I like to witness. And now I feel cold inside in a way I don't understand, and I think I can attribute it to being caught in the act of my study.

My flatmate rolls his eyes at me. "I should have known," he says. He sighs, smiles slightly, and leans back in his chair. "All right, then, tell me: what does my typing say about me? Because I already know it's inefficient. I just never bothered to take a class for typing. I never really had use for it before, until this damn blog."

I could give him a lengthy, in-depth ramble about all the things his typing says about him, and normally, I wouldn't mind in the least, and I would dive straight into it. But here I am hesitating, and I can't place why. With anyone else I could easily expose everything about them through the way they type ((for example, the speedy way my fingers fly across the keys and type out my responses to e-mails and forum posts and the like shows that I don't like to waste my time, that I was taught well how to use proper typing via "home row" ('asdf' through 'jkl;') and am a fast thinker as well as a precise man. I could go on)), but with John, I feel I shouldn't dissect him any longer. I feel as though I shouldn't let him know exactly how often I think about him, and how well I know him.

"Oh, it wouldn't be fair. I already know your personality, and I could be projecting that onto how you type. So never mind," I say nonchalantly. I return to my textbook and attempt to read it this time. It's all about the body farms in the States, and there are full-color photos included, and it's extremely informative and immensely useful for my forensic data and possible future cases.

I can feel John's gaze, inquisitive and suspicious. He wants to ask me why I'm suddenly clamming up during a chance to show off. He suspects that I'm keeping something from him that he wouldn't like to hear, and that, in turn, causes him to wonder even more why I'm being considerate enough to do so. I can read it all in the silence suddenly falling between us, and the way I see his brows furrow in my peripheral vision.

I clear my throat. "John, if you insist on staring me down like that, I might feel obligated to leave the room. It's uncomfortable."

"Your reason makes sense and all, but is that really why you're suddenly quiet, Sherlock? Normally you would launch right into it without a second thought," John remarks, and he's giving me one of his looks (I have all of his facial expressions inexplicably memorized, save for any ones I wouldn't see, like those he might share with a lover during intercourse, or other expressions just as private). It's a look that says, _'I can't begin to guess what you're up to, but I have the right to know, don't I?'_

I sigh. "Too tired," I say at length, and move to lie down on the sofa as if to prove my point. I place my open book over my face to block out the light, and help shield the penetration of his gaze. It hardly helps either.

John, apparently dropping the topic, sighs through his nose and resumes typing. It all sounds crisp and clear to me with my eyes closed. I can even hear the rustle of his clothing and the rubbing on the chair as he moves.

I hope this remains a dropped topic. It's hardly important, and nothing memorable. Luckily, it does remain so; John forgets all about it by the evening, and we're watching _Merlin _together, and I make the remarks I normally do about how painfully clueless Arthur is of Merlin's magic, and John smiles and laughs, and everything is back to the usual, the way it always is between cases.


	5. 04: Fiancees and Sentiments

**A/N: The case in this one, if you aren't familiar with the Sherlock Holmes novels, is inspired by the story in _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes _titled, "A Case of Identity." But that's not the focus here, so it's only summarized. **

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><p>04. Fiancées and Sentiments<p>

We're puzzling out an odd case in which a girl's fiancée leaves her on the day of her wedding, swearing to her that, no matter what happens, she can't love another, and she fears he was kidnapped, when John says something rather catching. I halt for a moment and look at him. He doesn't repeat it, and by his posture, it's a mystery if he even spoke at all, because I often mistake his absences and imagine his responses, or so he's made me realize. But I am sure I definitely heard this, because my own mind would never generate anything like that question.

"This poor girl. I can't stomach her heartbreak. Can you imagine if someone you loved was whisked out from under your nose before you could have a life with them?"

I am still trying to process this when John shakes his head and looks up. And yes, he definitely spoke, because he severs the train of thought with another statement.

"No, never mind. You're not one for sentiment; you wouldn't be able to imagine it, would you?" and he sounds even more sorrowful than when he first voiced his thoughts on this miniscule case, and it somehow rubs me the wrong way.

"I could possibly imagine it if I tried," I counter smoothly. "I have an understanding of it, anyhow. Obviously it would be devastating and troubling. It would ache fiercely in one's chest, the panic causing constriction and difficulty breathing. And, of course, sentiment would make one feel fragile and wounded."

John sighs. "Of course you would approach it psychologically," he says. "But I meant… Oh, never mind." And he waves a hand in the air to brush it off. "Forget I said anything." He looks at me, something different in his eyes than had been there a moment ago. "Got any sort of leads to finding him?"

"I'm sure we already know where he is," I tell him. "Isn't it obvious? She said her stepfather wouldn't approve of her marriage to anyone, and it's clearly because, due to the age difference between himself and her wealthy mother, he would lose much of the inheritance. So, simply, he disguised himself, made a false love interest for his stepdaughter, and then made her want no other man but the one she met, forcing her to stay home and give him a reason to have the money for the rest of their lives. That's why he counted her through e-mails and texts from a different phone, and when they did meet up, he wore tinted glasses, grew out his stubble, and wore many layers of clothing, and said he could only speak in a whisper because of an illness he had as a child. It's also why he told her that he didn't like his picture taken, not even on her phone. It's simple things I would use to disguise myself, hiding in plain sight. It's no mystery, in the end. All we have to do is confront the fraud of a stepfather and have him explain all of this to his unfortunate stepdaughter."

John stares at me for a long, slow moment, and finally shakes his head. "You got all of that from her description of her fiancée and when you asked her about her family's financial situation?"

"Of course. Anyone could tell by the way she dressed in all designer labels and kept all her clothes that well ironed, as well as maintained a perfectly erect posture that she was wealthy and well-bred, and given her age – freshly out of college but unmarried and living with her parents – there wasn't much left to ask. It's very obvious after some thought. It's just a bit twisted. Are people really so desperate for money that they would fabricate such a thing? It's disgusting."

"I agree. It's completely mental, and totally weird. But at least you've got it! You are a regular genius, aren't you?" John muses, and he watches as I bring out my phone and scroll through it. "What are you doing now?"

"Going through my call history to find Miss Sutherland and ask for her and her parents to come here. I would like to expose this to them and get the case over with," I reply easily. I steal a glance at John and sigh. "You were hoping it was a real kidnapping case, weren't you?"

"Well, it was too confusing were it anything else. Plus, kidnapping is… I don't know, more understandable," John supplies as his answer. He doesn't look too happy about it.

"True enough," I agree, "And kidnapping is more fun. There's usually a hunt and a chase involved, and sometimes ransom notes or money. I love those," I smirk. "But that wasn't the case here. So we have to live with it, I suppose."

"At least the poor girl can move on," John murmurs. "Although I'm sure she'll hate her stepfather now."

"He's only six years her senior. She should have known that he would play childish, unfair games against her, because even men of thirty can have the level of greed and immaturity of a fraternity boy," I mumble. I finish sending the text to Miss Sutherland and slide my phone back into my pocket. I don't like leaving the precious topic alone. Staring at John, I ask, "Do you really think I can't feel any sort of sentiment about anything, can't imagine heartache?"

John huffs, disliking that I've brought this up again. He stands up and paces a few small steps before placing his hands on the back of his chair. "No, I don't think so, Sherlock. There is something robotic about your over-analytical head. You know the definition and chemical processes of emotions, but when it comes down to actually feeling them, it's like you're incapable of it, or you choose to ignore it."

His tone is a bit harsh for his usually gentle voice, but John's face compensates for it, because while his words are cold and his tone is frustrated, his face pities me. His eyes are compassionate. I take what I can get. "I can feel things, John," I say stiffly, because I felt those words. I felt them like a slap to the face. "I keep myself distanced during cases to remain professional, the same way an egotistical doctor who plays God might. But when it comes to other things… I know what they feel like, John."

He instantly changes demeanor. He takes a hesitant step forward, moving for me. "I… I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock. I know you're actually human. No robot could be as human as you are, no matter how hard you try to hide it," he says, and he sounds apologetic and sincere. I relax some. His voice drops to a near whisper. "…What do you mean, you know what they feel like?"

Thankfully, I don't have to answer this unsettling question. My phone chimes a text alert, and I slip it out of my pocket to examine the screen. It's a reply from Miss Sutherland, who seems excited, asking if I've found him already. I reply that I will explain everything to her and her family if she comes to the flat as soon as convenient. She replies moments later that she is already on her way.

"We'll finish this later," John says, leaning off of the armchair and moving into the kitchen, most likely to be the good host I am not and prepare tea for our guests, possibly thinking of asking Mrs. Hudson is she has any biscuits to add.

I move to my chair and plop down onto it, sinking back, head resting on its cushion, and sighing loudly. I hate talking about my emotions. Why do people feel the need to do so, anyhow? It doesn't change how I will feel, nor will it solve any problem. All it does it cause more trouble.


	6. 05: Experiments and Horrible Movies

05. Experiments and Horrible Movies

I don't understand why it's so vital for John to know the inner workings of my metaphorical heart. Up until recently, I had thought I didn't have one, because many people have told me I don't, and I never felt much in it to think they were lying. But the truth is, it seems, I am rather human deep down, and I can't say I like it.

But John is keenly interested in this. He's experimenting on me (which only seems fair; I have used him for experiments plenty of times over), forcing me into situations to earn an emotional response.

Most of what he gets is my annoyance.

He tries to get me to watch certain movies with him, like _Titanic, _to get me to cry or feel sympathy, I think. But I could care less about it, because the film focuses more on the romance of the event than the actual facts, and it's painfully long, slow, and _boring_, and the song "My Heart Will Go On" is obnoxious, and I actually doze off halfway through it.

John wakes me near the end of it, complaining that I am too heavy, and it's then that I realize that I fell completely asleep and slumped over onto him (he only let me sleep, I'm sure, because he had thought I was being quiet because I was paying attention). A little embarrassed with myself, I scoot away from him and finish the last of the movie without absorbing a bit of it.

John attempts other things to elicit a response from me. He tries startling me by hiding behind a door and leaping out; no use, I could tell by how ajar the door was and the fact that he was freshly out of the shower, and therefore reeking of cleaning products such as his deodorant and shampoo.

John also tries to make me uncomfortable with proximity because he thinks I don't like to be touched. That's not at all the case; I simply have no need to touch people very often. On impulse I might do something like kiss Mrs. Hudson's cheek or touch someone's shoulder, but for the most part, I don't touch others because I don't feel like I have to. I am not known to be affectionate in that way, if affectionate at all.

So John goes about speaking closely to me (but we do this very often anyhow, so it doesn't bother me that he's lessened the distance to scant centimeters) or peering over my shoulder whenever he can, or going as far as to purposely touch my hand or forearm or shoulder or back as an "accidental brush." But it doesn't work; I don't mind in the least. I almost welcome the closeness and occasional touches because there is something about them that feel comforting.

I suppose he is succeeding in making me react, but not outwardly, and I can tell that it frustrates him.

So John moves on in his experiment, trying out other things. He attempts to make me deliberately angry by tossing out some of the human body parts (mainly organs) I have stored in the 'fridge, and I do get angry, but not furious, and John looks disappointed when I tell him I'll simply have to get more on my next trip to the morgue.

In the end, John gives up, I think, because he doesn't make me watch any more films, the touching stops, and he doesn't do anything to better the state of our kitchen.

Somehow, this disappoints me more than the whole test has disappointed him. I feel a sense of loss when he goes about ignoring me for a few days.

Ah, unless, perhaps, he is doing this as another test, to make me feel this way? He wants me to dislike being ignored? Well, it's working. With a huff of indignity, I say at last, "John… would you like to watch another God-awful action film?"

He perks up, interested and excited and nearly smiling. He stands and moves for his room to grab a DVD. "Sure thing, Sherlock." And he doesn't ask what brought this on, and damn him, I think he knows why.

Congratulations, Dr. Watson: you have successfully made me feel neglected and hungry to have your attention again. Bravo.


	7. 06: Shopping and Cooking

**A/N: Alternate title: "Pathetically Domestic." XD **

**Prepare for all the cuteness of this one, you guys. A.K.A., FLUFF AHOY!**

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><p>06. Shopping and Cooking<p>

It's pathetically domestic of John to take me out shopping.

He has this grand idea that I will eat more often if I shop with him and pick out things I enjoy tasting. However, he soon discovers, not many things suit my taste buds, and the things that do are either out of John's range of cooking skill or are much too unhealthy to bother purchasing. The latter is me being somewhat of a rotten child using psychology; I know he won't buy me sweets, so I ask for them to make him think I would be fat or come down with diabetes if I ate what I wanted.

The truth is, I don't care much for the junk food I'm listing off. I despite putting poison into my body, which is essentially what all these foods are. They would slow down my thinking and ruin my metabolism and soil my pancreas. However, the psychology of asking for it and not receiving it is working, so I consider this a manipulative success. It's payback, after all, for him forcing me out into the public to a _supermarket _of all places. Revolting.

"Strawberries are on sale," John points out, and much to my chagrin, I immediately look and zone in on them without a conscious thought.

I had long forgotten how wonderful they were, and now that I've had them recently, I wouldn't mind stocking up on them and devouring them for the next week. So I dump about seven little plastic boxes of them into the cart, and John gapes for a moment.

"We're only shopping for this weeks' groceries! Are you honestly going to eat an entire box _per day_?" John reels just before laughing at me. "Oh, God, you _are, _aren't you? Your face is completely serious right now."

"Because I am serious," I remark sternly. "I won't eat anything else."

"Except toast and eggs, I hope," John remarks, "Because I am buying both, and making enough for the pair of us whenever I decide to cook it."

"Fine," I agree flatly. I turn on my heel and head for the dairy aisle, grabbing the milk and cream for coffee, as well as a small carton of orange juice for John. When I dispose of it into the cart, John looks at me fondly for a moment before moving on. I frown. "What? I remember the necessities when I have to."

"Oragne juice isn't a necessity," John murmurs, "You just know that I like it with my jam and toast some mornings."

"It's a habit. Even I can recall habits, especially those of my flatmate," I say idly. "It's nothing to grin like an idiot about."

"Oh, Sherlock," he says with a shake of his head. He doesn't elaborate on what I've done this time to earn such a response, and I hate how it confounds me. I try not to let it bother me for the remainder of the outing as we go about collecting other food items. I grab a box of porridge, and John doesn't protest. Instead, he comments half to himself, "You like breakfast foods, don't you?"

"They are the only things you can make that I will eat, yes," I supply offhandedly. I scan the shelves for anything else that suits my fancy, if I have to do this, this _domestic shopping with John _thing. I'm still trying to recall precisely how he worded it to get me to tag along. I am suffering as we speak, all these _drones _around us doing their little _food errands _and it's so dull.

"…Right. Because I can't cook Chinese and Italian, your favorites," John says. He sighs. "I really can't cook much at all. But I can make soups and stews, you know. I can make a mean chicken and vegetable soup, as well as a decent stout beer and beef stew, if you were interested."

Something sparks in me, and I turn and look at examine him for a moment, eyes scanning his frame before it clicks: of course he knows how to make these things. As a med student, and later, as a bachelor, it may be one of the simplest things to prepare and let simmer for hours, and as a doctor, he knows that it is something nutritional that covers all the bases of the meat, vegetable, and starch food groups. Of _course. _I should have guessed as much and suggested it from the beginning of this horrid escapade.

I nod curtly. "Do it, then. Get the ingredients for both. You do have the recipes memorized, don't you?"

"Yes," John says with a tone that says, _'Do you think me a moront?'_ And then his face changes to say, _'Wait, don't answer that.'_ I allow one of my rare, true smiles to show, because _Oh, John._

After a long wait in the check-out area (we have too many items for the machines, and reasonably, going to a register is faster; John's typing reflects his disdain for technology like ATMs and the like because, of course, he would have a row with the machine if I let him try using it), we're hauling all of our groceries between us and walking back to the flat together.

I have about five bags in each hand, and John about seven in each. We walk in silence, and the wind is nippy on my face. I try to, without hands, bury my face into my scarf, but it is hanging too low. I grunt from irritation and lag behind John a couple of steps. But I don't rush to catch up; instead, I find my eyes trailing behind him, admiring the part of his profile I can see, and the cut of his hair at the nape of his neck, and the ways his jacket hangs on his body, and the way his jeans fold and wrinkle and stretch with every step.

And this isn't normal, is it? I don't need John to tell me that this isn't normal. But I can't seem to look away.

When we reach the flat, I shift all of my bags to one hand and unlock the doors, waiting for John to enter the premise. I follow behind, locking things back up as I go, and even though I feel too lazy to do the tedious task of unloading and stocking the groceries, I aid John anyhow, to make the process speedier.

We leave out the ingredients for the chicken and vegetable soup, and though I don't know how to make it, John shoves the cutting board and celery and carrots at me, demanding I chop them up. I dice them neatly and quickly, and he compliments me and says I could make a decent chef one day. I blow up with pride at that and offer to chop anything else he needs. He hands me onions and parsley, and I slice those up, too, making the parsley fine and the onions small, but similar in side to the celery wedges.

I dump my newly minced bits to his pot from over his shoulder, and John peers over at me, and there is something unusually soft in his eyes that I have never seen before (check; add another expression to John's list of faces, this one untitled). I blink at him, step back, and let him continue stirring. Then I move away, dusting my hands and wiping them on the sides of my trousers. They smell of onions and greens, as they should, and in the air, I can smell chicken broth and garlic.

There is something so pathetically domestic about all of this, and somehow, I don't find it half as obnoxious as I would were it between any other persons (_especially _those in a romantic comedy, the sort John likes to watch on occasion because of his girlfriends' recommendations, in which every little domestic action is sickeningly sweet).

But then again, I suppose, John has that effect on people, and I am not excluded. He has childish charm, and a sort of innocent charisma that follows him everywhere. It makes every person he meets automatically fond of him, whether they want to be or not, because before they discover his history – Afghanistan, crime chasing with me, shooting people, healing people, having outbursts, being in fights – as they associate with John is his undeniable appeal.

And much as I have thought myself above it or have resisted it, I think it's working its power on me, because suddenly, I don't mind cooking with John again; not to mention that the idea of eating more regularly because John made the food for me (and himself, naturally) is a less far-fetched concept.


	8. 07: Natives and Muses

07. Natives and Muses

When I was at university, I had a sociology professor who made a memorable lecture one day concerning the topic of "going native," as he liked to call it. It was when conquistadors and explorers and settlers would fall in love with, marry, have children with, sleep with, or rape the women of the native land they were invading/exploring/settling onto. Now, my professor had explained, that term didn't only apply to such a thing; he also applied it as lingo for when a professor or teacher or other instructor did any of the previous acts with one of their students.

However, when I was his pupil, I applied it to myself were I ever to somehow placed in a similar position with any human whose intelligence didn't match mine, which is nearly every person on the planet, save for, perhaps, James Moriarty and, regrettably mentioned, my brother. And seeing as how I would never commit incest (he wouldn't, either, and besides, I hate my brother and do have _some_ morals, thank you) nor fall in love with or have as much as hate-sex with my profound and self-proclaimed _true_ nemesis and perfect rival, then all that leaves is for me to possibly "go native" and one day associate myself romantically and/or physically with someone below my level of genius.

And, to bring this to a point I'm trying to make: I think I have, in fact, "gone native." I have not had sex with anyone, clearly, but I think I might be experiencing some of the effects of love. Just thinking it leaves me feeling hideously _ordinary, _but at the same time, I can't find it in me to complain because of _whom _I'm possibly in love with.

Now, my knowledge of love is as sparse as a dying tree, but there are a few clinging leaves that act as tidbits of information I have on the dreaded word. First of all, its dictionary definition; second, the chemicals in the brain which trigger its side-effects; third, a list of those side effects gathered through observation of others around me who fell in love with someone; and fourth, every little scene in every dumb movie I have seen John or my mother consume.

Add it all together, and yes, I am sure I am in love, although not as foolishly as some, because I am not left to pine or waste away from it. It simply _is. _I have accepted it as a part of me like anything else: My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am the world's only consulting detective. I have been diagnosed as a high-functioning sociopath. I play the violin. I have an addictive personality. I get bored easily. I love John Hamish Watson.

Facts, every last one. Not one of the previously mentioned facts is more important or prominent than the other. They are all parts of what makes me who I am. Nothing more.

To extend the list further: I have the potential to be addicted to stimulants; namely drugs, cigarettes, nicotine patches, caffeine, adrenaline, criminal studies, homicide cases. My flatmate has become my muse; he encourages me, he compliments me, he is my closest companion, he aids me in my work, and he is the only person who has ever stood by me and accepted me completely, even when it displeases him when I act a certain way.

Funny (without actual humor, mind you) how the two most important things in my life – my work and my friend – are the only things I can elaborate on. Funny how I have a person to call my friend. Funny how work seems less interesting when said friend isn't involved.

Funny how I fell in love in the first place, helpless against it.

And the funniest thing of all (still without humor), I think, is how long it took me, the cleverest man in London (and this is being highly modest), so long to deduce my own symptoms.

Sometimes, I think John is right: For a genius, I am an idiot.


	9. 08: Undisclosed and Complex

08. Undisclosed and Complex

Cases come and go like rain during an English spring, and I don't really pay much attention to them. Naturally I am absorbed in the cases, my mind humming like churning gears in a grandfather clock, tick-tick-ticking away with puzzles and thoughts and crimes and experiments, but it's not the same as _paying attention. _I work, but I am doing do fluidly.

It seems as though this concept of being in love with John has sliced and sluiced down and through my very being, simultaneously cleansing and corrupting me. Instead of focusing entirely on a case, I find myself partially focusing on John during them.

John Watson has become a constant flame burning like an eternal candle, his very essence a backburner to everything else, but not an easily forgotten backburner. He flickers and dances before me, and I am drawn to him like a moth, and helpless to the way he slowly is burning me.

It's all rather absurd. He has me speaking in poetry; this is not a good sign. Not at _all._

And even the case of thee Hound plagues me, because I was forced to reveal some of what I feel for him. I was panicked and scared and thoughtless, and said that I don't have friends, because I don't. Not in the plural sense, but not truthfully, either. Because John is more to me than a friend, even though he is not aware of it. But I had to fix things, because he was hurt. He considers me a friend, and it had been as though I told me he meant nothing to me, when that isn't even the truth, not even _close_.

And so came my apology and explanation and repentance, as small as it was. And he accepted it, and we moved on.

But I fear that this has evolved into something much more complex than I anticipated. This is no long a fact, this feeling; it's no longer part of me, a daily, common reminder of sentiment. It is consuming me. I am becoming lost in it, because John doesn't know how important he is. How greatly he impacts me. How no one else has been as important to me as he is, not even when I used to put my brother on a pedestal as a child. Not even my competition with Moriarty is a as strong, and that is saying quite a lot. No, John is the Number One Thing.

Which makes him dangerous. Because he is a threat to my work, my obsession. It used to be what consumed me; now I am not so sure. If I am not careful, my mind will become clouded, and I will have truly gone "native," and the last thing I want to be is ordinary, but _oh, _if being ordinary brought me closer to John and having him for my own more than a friend or flatmate or colleague, then I would gladly become less exceptional and a bit more common for _his _sake, because to have a humanity with him would be the Ultimate Thing, more than drugs or the thrill of the chase or satisfaction of accomplishment or composition of music or taste of strawberries or the capture of Moriarty.

To have John would be it. I would actually feel happiness, genuine happiness, something I thought to be petty and dull and pointless in the past.

However, it isn't meant to be. It would ruin everything if he knew. And as far as I can tell, he isn't interested. He's kind, curious, thoughtful; he takes me out because he knows I need to eat. He watches movies with me because it's something he thinks will relax me and help me understand some of his references and jokes. He seeks companionship in me because I am his best friend and flatmate and colleague.

And it's all these things that are beginning to wound me, because John can't know how much I wish his actions meant something more.

It's all so very complicated.


	10. 09: Happenstances and Inconveniences

**A/N: Oops, here comes the Reichenbach angst; oops, oops.**

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><p>09. Happenstances and Inconveniences<p>

At some point, I knew the chain of events in my life or during a particular case would become overwhelming even for me, happening too much too quickly, and I would be cornered and confused like a rat in an endless labyrinth.

I knew this because Moriarty is me, and I am Moriarty, but Moriarty is what I chose not to be, and I am what Moriarty chose not to be, but we are otherwise perfect compliments of the other, and we work in the same ways, but even he can outwit me by being not clever enough, and it's rather inconvenient.

Because the binary code to open anything was a lie and was acted out simply with paid people with the right occupations, and I was so, so stupid to fall for his bluffs and mind games and the way things fell into place against me, framing me, making me the monster and not him, when I see, now, that I am not an angel, no, but I will gladly work toward justice because I hate it when no one is clever enough to catch the wrongdoer, but I have let it slip through my fingers all the same.

I didn't know this, however, before the mess began. It was the eve of all the trouble, of the return of Moriarty and his tricks, and it was storming. Heavily. I remember because even the daylight was dim, and sometime in the afternoon, a foreboding thing occurred: the power went out.

John was watching the telly and I was organizing data on my laptop when everything blacked out. The entire block was pitch dark, and even the sunlight wasn't enough through the thick clouds.

I was content to finish my work on my remaining battery power and shut the lid to sit in the darkness, but John was having none of it. He got up almost immediately after the television blanked in front of him. He rummages around, located candles of all shapes and sizes from various places in the flat, and set them up on tables. Then he lit the fireplace, blew out a few unneeded candles to save them, and sat back into his chair.

"Looks like we'll have to do something else tonight," he said, but it was more geared toward himself than me. I was, like I said, content to sit in the dark. I liked the dark, didn't mind it in the least; it sometimes helped far better with my thinking process than any amount of light could. Light distracts; darkness isolates.

But John saw it as an inconvenience and a starter of boredom. So he turned to me, eyes sparkling in the firelight, and asked with a slight smile, "I know you'll probably beat me, but do you want to place a round of chess? Just to pass the time until the lights are on again?"

And I didn't refuse him. I shrugged and nodded, saving my work and closing the lid of my Mac. I got up, dug around for the chess board and its pieces, and set them up on a small table between John and I. He played white, going first, and of course it did him no good. I won, but he wanted to play again, so I let him.

We played chess like two old men for hours, sharing glasses of a bottle of wine John had forgotten about, and chatted here and there, between moves. I thought, at the time, that the storm had been a charming omen to bring John and I closer together; but naivety proved me false when I realized much later it had been a violent, negative omen warning me of Moriarty.

I have never thought of intense, blackout-inducing storms the same again.


	11. 10: Lies and Games

**A/N: Don't worry, the Reichenangst will end around chapter 14. And around then is when these chapters will get much longer again, going from drabble to oneshot once more. X3**

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><p>10. Lies and Games<p>

I knew it the second I was on the street that night when I told John that I had something to do. I realized it then: I needed to kill myself.

(I think, were she to hear of it, The Woman would be impressed on how I faked my own suicide. She would probably take notes for future reference to up her game.)

But the horrible part of it is this: up until the moment I stood on the ledge of St. Bart's for the final time, I had thought I might not need to lie. I might not have to use the failsafe plan, the last resort of dishonest death. I thought this as I was about to be handcuffed and John came out to join me, all because I was spoken poorly of and he assaulted a police officer because of it. I thought things might work out as I held John's hand (and even in that moment, it was out of necessity to avoid broken wrists while flailing about whilst handcuffed together, but I was content to feel the texture of his palm and fingers in mine) and ran with him, as he pulled me against the gate and spoke so closely to me, and as we were tackled to the ground by one of my assassins.

I thought, for a passing moment, the lies and games could be spared, and I might win.

I was wrong.

Because I didn't win. I saved lives, but at what traumatic cost?


	12. 11: Tears and Notes

**A/N: Time is fluid, so the previous two were in past tense, Sherlock looking back on Reichenbach, and now they will become basically present tense once more.**

**Don't ask me why; it just came out this way. XD;;**

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><p>11. Tears and Notes<p>

I fondly look back at the first time I met John and smile, almost laugh. He reminds me of it, his voice a soft cadence in my ear, broken and melodic, words frightened and desperate. "The first time we met, the first time we met… you knew all about my sister."

I feel a rush of emotion flood through me. Tears are on my face, and for once, they aren't faked to get a response, aren't an act. I wish they were; it would be so much easier if I was doing this to be convincing. I intended to be, but in the end, I know it's all too real. I don't have to go through with this. I was so harsh; I said that being alone protected me. John said that friends protect friends. He was right. I was more than wrong; I was lying to make it easier on him for when this time came, if it had to come. If it hadn't, I was going to apologize, say I hadn't meant it, because I hadn't. But it's too late, now; it must happen. I must go through with this, my twisted and painful plan, because it will spare lives. And most importantly, the life of one Dr. John Watson.

I swallow hard. "No one could be that clever."

I nearly shatter into pieces when he says, "_You could_."

And there, my suicide is already finished without me taking the drop yet, and all because John still believes in me. And I huff a laugh of nerves and reminiscence, because John is still one of the few people who truly appreciate my innate ability and is never offended by it, even when he had every right and reason to be.

"Goodbye, John."

And I never wanted to say those words to him. Never. Not for any reason, because I love him, because he's The Number One Thing, and because this is all for him.

This is my Note. And these are my Tears. I pray he takes both into consideration in the coming months (or God forbid, _years_), because they are the only hints I can give him that this has purpose; this isn't due to pressure from the media or from lack of luster in life; this is because I must. I have no other choice.

So Goodbye, I tell him. Goodbye, and please, try to understand, John. For me, just try. It's well beyond you, but it's all I have to ask: _try._


	13. 12: Soil and Ruin

12. Soil and Ruin

I need to see how this affects him. I know it's almost vain of me, but I need to know. If anything, I am making sure of his well-being. I can't get started on my mission of taking down Moriarty's web of assassins and schemes unless I know for sure that John is going to be stable. I need him so badly to be stable. But he should be, shouldn't he? He was in the army. He has seen death many times, comrades included. He was a doctor for Christ's sake. So he shouldn't be too terribly fazed, should he?

Oh, how I wish I this were true. But I know I am not. So I follow him, just for a spell. I watch him. I pretend that I'm not listening, not reading his lips, not keeping my face painfully deadpan to keep from shedding a tear.

Because he is seeing his therapist again. And he is treading on the soggy, filthy soil of a hundred dead men, and he is falling to ruin being my eyes, standing before my fresh and empty grave, speaking to me, getting his closure that doesn't quite feel like closure because I catch him saying, "One more miracle, Sherlock, for me: don't. Be. _Dead_."

And he is so broken that I wonder how it could have ever come to this. How anyone could be so near to me, so dear, how anyone could care about me this way, how I was so lucky and took it for granted for so long, and how I wasted so much by not telling him, at least so he was aware, of my feelings for him, or at least telling him of my plans to spare him this heartache.

I wonder for a moment if he loves me (love_d_ me?). I wonder for another if I should reveal myself now, even before my work has begun, at least to explain to him why I must be nonexistent for a while.

But then I think of the sniper, possibly still on his tail, and so I turn and walk away.

I shove my hands into my coat pockets and think of what my new identity shall be. My haircut, color, alias, clothing style. I need to change it all, lest I be recognized. Perhaps I will bleach it blond or ginger; perhaps I will wear colored contacts (brown, the furthest thing from my own). Perhaps I will start wearing jumpers.

My heart twists. No jumpers, then.

I sigh and duck my face into my turned-up collar. I feel sick, but determined. I nearly sprint off of the graveyard, because it is too bleak for me, too cold. I send silent waves of _move on from me, John, move on for your sake, because you deserve better friends, a more tolerable flatmate, and certainly another person to love _in John's retreating direction behind me.

Soil of the Earth and the ruin of death. That is all that can be found here, and it grieves me to know that I have brought someone as wonderful as John to bear it.


	14. 13: Concentration and Distraction

**A/N: Whoo, whoo! All aboard the Angst Express! Next stop: some resolution to this conflict! Yay! :D**

**I have 20 drabbleshots planned, so here's to 7 more, yeah? Cheers. C:**

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><p>13. Concentration and Distraction<p>

I clutch my side and press into it, keeping the blood in as much as possible, all while jogging with a semi-limp in my gait. But I can't lose the trail now; I must pursue it like a bloodhound with a hot scent. I stay on his heels, chasing the man down narrow alleyways in the dead of night.

I nearly have him, but my wound is raw and searing and biting, and I grind my teeth and pant heavily, throat parched and scratchy, my pace slowing down considerably. But I must get him; I can't even bait him to the police like the others. This one is too vital. This one is too hazardous. This one would have killed me if I hadn't been fast enough to dodge the bullet; but, clearly, my escape wasn't good enough, because it grazed me and left me with this insistent gouge in my side.

I try to brush it off, forcing my adrenaline to kick into overtime to buy me a few more minutes, just enough time to finally put an end to John's assassin, Sebastian Moran.

I chase him around a bend and find him scaling a fire escape. I let out a string of curses – a rare but not improbable thing for me to utter – and endure the tearing, sharp pains as I hoist myself up, grab the ladder, and climb after him.

He runs rooftop to rooftop, the wound I was able to inflict on his leg in our tussle not slowing him down in the least; he must have been trained to be desensitized to pain. I resent him even more for that, because even I can't ignore the gash just below my bottommost rib on my right side, but he seems to be able to ignore the flesh wound in his left calf just fine.

I wish I had a gun; the knife I carry on my person isn't very handy to throw, and especially not at this distance with such a shifting target. I grunt as I leap after him, trying to pick up my pace without overexerting myself to the point of death.

Moran is speedy, but I can be speedier. I take a shortcut to head him off; it does me almost no good, because I can't trick him in an area he clearly already knows. I let out a roar of a battle cry, however, when I get close enough to launch myself at him.

Blood spatters the ground, his and mine alike, and I beat him with my fists until he is rendered unconscious. Now, to kill him with a simple motion of my knife or give him up to the police? I know for a fact he is wanted for other crimes than being a hired assassin, but I can't let the police know about me.

Sighing, I decide that, despite how much I want to murder him, he might have information on Moriarty. I know my opposite couldn't have truly died; what point in it could there have been aside from forcing me to commit suicide and/or fooling me into a false sense of security?

This, I decide, it is time to regrettably but necessarily text my brother. I'm going to hand this co-villain of a greater villain over to Mycroft because I am at a loss due to my need to remain hidden for a while longer, a few loose ends needing tying up. Mycroft and his men can interrogate Moran, pressing matters as far as they must go, and perhaps gain something worth my knowing. And then they can dispose of the sniper as they please.

Not dead. Caught an assassin meant for John. Bringing him to you now. Get info on Moriarty; tell no one I'm alive. –SH

He rings me immediately. The ever-stoic and even-more-heartless-than-I Mycroft actually sounds teary-eyed as he tells me, "I knew you were alive."

I make a noncommittal noise and look around. "Now's not the time for reunions. You need to pick him up before he's conscious again. I have him bound, but not enough to fully restrain his strength. We're both wounded. If you come now, I might forgive you for having this whole Moriarty mess partially your fault."

The guilt trip works; after telling him my location, he's here within the half hour, Moran is drugged to remain unconscious until they have him where they want him, and Mycroft is giving me a distanced embrace that I don't return, and an apology that I don't want to hear, but my concentration paid off, and that's all I care about.

I'm patched up by medics who don't speak English and therefore can't tell anyone about me (nice touch, Brother; I'll give you that), and soon, I'm on my way again, looking to rest for a short while before continuing the minute details of the remainder of my mission to fix what I have unleashed by making close relations.

However, as I am pacing through the beginnings of dawn on the streets of London, I pass a drunk bloke wobbling on his feet, head bowed, face obscured by the lack of streetlamps. It isn't until I pass right by the figure that I grasp that it's John whom I'm seeing.

I stop cold in my tracks.

He doesn't recognize me (as expected, and preferred). He mumbles something to no one in particular, and heads in the direction of our flat. I tense up all over, my wound sore and aching, and my feet burning. I am drowsy and thirsty; I have a headache, and feel drained of all my adrenaline and energy.

But my feet move of their own accord, turn, and follow in John's shadow cast by the dim of the lingering half-moon. John provides a distraction for me from my exhaustion, and I am desperate to know why he is so drunk at such a late/early hour, and why he is alone and stumbling home without a taxicab.

I lick my dry lips and feel my gaze soften with sorrow and remorse as I watch him from a safe distance, trailing behind him silently and unnoticed. I keep my pace equal with his – not an easy feat, considering how uneven it is due to the alcohol – so he doesn't catch the sound of my extra footsteps.

He goes to the flat. He stands outside the all too familiar door and starts to yell, "Fuck you! Fu-huck _you. _I don't need'ta see yer ugly insides ever 'gain, y'hear me? I c-can't even set f-foot in you," he says, hiccupping now, and with drunkenness or sobs, I can't tell, "Without thinkin' of _him. _So just go away, go _away!_" and he throws a rock at the window, falling to his knees from the momentum of his toss. And then John is crying, and I want nothing more than to go to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders and shush him and tell him that I'm here.

And I think, with how drunk he is, I can get away with that.

So I limp a bit over to him, one hand absently going to my wound, feeling the stitches through gauze and my bloodied shirt, and I indulge in his distraction, because I know he needs it, and so do I.

"John," I murmur, and I kneel down and touch him. He flinches, not looking at me. He feels feverish even though his jacket, and I know it might not entirely be due to the alcohol; heavy weeping can also raise one's body temperature, and it makes me wince. "Shush, John. It's alright. Don't cry. Don't you dare, John Watson. You are a soldier. You don't cry."

"N-no," he mutters, and he turns a bit toward me, but doesn't look up. "You've never seen war, bombs goin' off in the dessert and hills and bodies everywhere. Men cry. Soldiers cry. Not then, but later. Always later," he informs me softly. "When no 'ne can see how dam'ged they 're."

He's slurring badly, and if I'm not mistaken, he looks sick. He might vomit at any given moment, but I don't move away. Instead, I move closer, my arm traveling across his trapezius and to his other shoulder, until I have part of my chest resting against the warmth of his upper back. John makes a choking noise and shudders.

"Who're you?" he finally asks, realizing that he's on the sidewalk in the pre-morning darkness with what he thinks is a stranger. "You sound like him. But you can't be him. He's d-dead."

"Shh, it's alright, John," I repeat, and he gives a sort of lazy nod, eyes closing, and I feel my stomach lurch; I might vomit, too. I hate that I have done this to him. But if he knew, if only he knew what I went through just tonight, just to protect him like he has done for me countless times…

"I loved him," John babbles, and I feel something in me knot up both pleasantly and guiltily, and he shakes his head and puts his face in his hands. "Why d'I have to know that when he died? Why couldn't I know that when he was alive? He was my b-best friend," he wails, and he hiccup/burps, and he puts his hand to his mouth. Behind his hand, there comes a muffled, "I hate him. I hate this flat. I hate you for sounding like him. Go 'way! _Go!_ Who're you? Who_'re _you?"

And he shoves me off, struggles to stand, and balances himself on the rail of the stairs leading to our door. He gestures widely with a hand, telling me over and over to leave him be.

I'm shaking all over and don't apprehend that I am until I'm a block away, wandering aimlessly, and can still see that devastated expression on John's face.

He's losing it. I'm losing it. We're falling apart without each other, because we were relatively fine before we knew one another, but now what we've been in contact and lived together for over a year, bonded by criminal cases and mysteries and threatening situations and domestic bliss and friendship and secret wish for the other, we don't know how to function. John's a mess and I am hardly human. I am not quite Moriarty, and John is not quite insane, but we are both unstable and not at our best, because we were at our best when we were inseparable.

I feel sick again, and have to pause my pace to catch my breath, forcing myself to rid my body of the psychological symptoms of heartache and despair and guilt.

It proves fruitless. I feel nauseous all the way to the motel I've been staying at while on my mission.

I was wrong to get distracted. I was doomed to see John tonight. I was selfish to think I could offer him some comfort with the sound of my voice in his drunken state.

I completely dropped my concentration.

I'm beginning to think I've failed everything, now.

I chug two water bottles at the motel. I undress, change my bandages, and lie down. I don't sleep. But this comes as no surprise to me. I anticipated it the second I recognized John on the street.


	15. 14: Reunion and Bruising

14. Reunion and Bruising

Mycroft insists on continuing his aid in my borderline vengeful undertaking without my permission, no matter how elaborate I try to evade him or demand/plead him to cease and desist. He is having none of it.

"The only people who are important to you could die," he reminds me firmly each time I make an attempt to stop him from working indirectly alongside me. "I can't allow that to happen for a multitude of reasons."

And so Mycroft goes right on tracking killers and people connected to Moriarty until, finally, all is revealed. Moriarty is found, exposed, sentenced to death; and all under the nose of the media, not a bit leaked. I'm proud of my brother for that. And everyone else is taken care of.

And so, after three years of being dead, I am finally free to return from the Beyond.

I am given my key to my flat and Mycroft sends a car to pick up John and take him there without his knowledge. When John arrives at Baker street, I am told some time later, he threw a fit, had a row with the chauffeur (Mycroft's assistant wasn't in the car), and nearly stormed off, had it not been for Mrs. Hudson being reined in as a last resort to calm him and convince him that it's been long enough; he needs to return to the flat and stop mooching off of his sister.

So John obeyed. He went up the stairs, and I heard every hesitant step he made.

He's been standing outside the door for fifteen minutes now, and counting. He refuses to open it. I hear his fingers brush the knob, jiggling it slightly, before retracting again, over and over. I can hear his labored breathing, his panicked, strangled, muffled sobs, and I can almost feel the way his heart is pounding in his chest with anxiety (because my own heart is doing the same).

Finally, after long last, John opens the door and lets it slowly creak open.

I am standing in the center of the living room, the furniture around me covered in plastic to save it from dust, and the many items shared between is (save for my scientific equipment; all of it has been donated to universities, it seems) collecting dust. Many of his major items have been removed, but mine remain. 221b has become a desolate place, and I internally mourn it, but I pray it can be back to its usual self in no time.

John sees me here, standing before him, and he sways on his feet. I run forward to catch him, and later he will most likely swear that this is the first and last time the grey swirls of a fainting spell have or will ever hit him.

I cradles John in my lap and brush his shaggy hair from his face. He's hardly gotten any haircuts and is due for another. He has, I've been told by many resources (mainly Molly and my brother, however), on and off with girlfriends for the past three years, but not once sticking with one for longer than a month at the most, and had stayed in a hotel for a while before his sister finally took him in, her divorce from Clara long over and her own single state sympathetic. She brought most of the women to him, and he broke off every single one in the end.

I touch his face delicately, fingertips alit with the sensation of his skin and facial features. I run a thumb over his eyebrow, stroke my index finger along his eye socket, trail my fingertips down his cheekbone and jawline. I press a kiss to his fore, just shy of his temple nearest me, and whisper apologies repeatedly.

I have no smelling salts, but I do have a flask of alcohol on me. Mycroft had given it to me, saying, "Just in case." Now I know why, if not to calm someone down with a drink, but to stir someone from unconsciousness with the sharp burn of it.

Some of the alcohol comes spilling out onto my palm, and I balance John on my legs as I use my free hand to dip a finger into the pool on my palm and smear the liquid across the seam of his parted lips. His tongue flicks out, eyes scrunching, and he licks it away. I drink the rest of it from my palm and dust my hand off on my jacket as John dizzyingly comes to his senses and sits up from my lap.

He stares at me for a long, long moment, soaking in my face and determining, I'm sure, that I am not a hallucination born of a mind driven insane from depression.

When he comes to the inevitable conclusion that I am solid and real and not the walking dead, John leaps to his feet and proceeds to punch me in the face.

I fall backward, stunned; I can feel the bruise already forming on my cheek and eye, and it will surely be a mottled purple-red by tomorrow, and yellow by the end of the week if I massage and moisturize it properly.

I peer up at John after I rub out some of the pain from my face. He is flushed and angry and relieved and panting. He isn't going to cry, and I take that as a good sign. "How fucking _dare you!_" he shouts. "Faking your death, tricking me like that, making me believe for _years _that you're gone, and then you go and make Mycroft deliver me to you now that you're plum good and ready to tell me you're alive? What the _bloody hell, _Sherlock? Do you really care that little about how people might value you, might ache with missing you? Fuck you!"

"John, it's good that you're angry," I say calmly as I stand and dust myself off. I can't quite look him in the eyes, those fiery, intense eyes, but I am able to look at him generally. "You have every sane, logical reason to be. But you need an explanation. And I need your forgiveness afterward."

"I don't know if I can forgive you," he mutters, and there is something in his tone that tells me, despite his stubborn wishes, he already has forgiven me in part, because at least I was able to give him the miracle he asked for originally. He inhales deeply, slowly, sharply; he exhales even slower, more deliberately, and forces himself not to hit me again, but his fists are clenched to the point of whiteness and he is trembling all over. "But an explanation is needed, yeah. I demand on, in fact. So fire away, Sherlock; tell me why the hell you needed to do this to me."

And so I do. I tell him every last detail; about Moriarty's threat, about the hunt to end it, about Mycroft's aid; and I even tell him about the night several months back when he was drunk and I was wounded and I saw him and couldn't help but go to him. I leave out nothing from my tale save for the blatant fact that I love him. John doesn't catch on even through subtext, and I am at ease.

"So that was you," he whispers. "In the morning, I woke up at Harry's and she said she went out looking for me, and knew she'd find me in front of here. She took me back and nursed me from the worst hangover of my life, but I had a dull sense of comfort, something I could rely on that didn't come from her taking care of me. I remembered the kindness of a stranger, and that was it. But I think, deep down inside, I hoped it had been you."

I nod, and we sit in silence for a while. Then, agonizingly, I ask, "What did you do while I was away?"

John adverts his gaze and looks pained. "What did you think I did? I wandered around, utterly lost, and bounced between having my psychosomatic limp back and gaining a new pain in my shoulder," he informs me. "I went to the therapist for a while, but dropped it when it wasn't helping me. I got lost in shifts at the hospital, once I felt comfortable going to the place you died. I fixed my relationship with Harry and moved in with her, since I could barely stand being here, at the flat. I went through girl after girl, but no matter how much they liked me or was able to lift my lips into a smile or make me breathe a laugh or two here and there, I was too broken for them to stay with, so I ended it before they could. And in the end, I was getting better, but lost it one night when someone mentioned you and what a fraud you were, and went and got drunk. You know the night," and John looks pointedly at me, and I have to look away. He sighs, scrubs his face, and runs his hair through his hair. There is distinctly more gray in it now, but still blond overall, somehow. He sighs. "And I've committed myself to hating you since."

"I will accept that," I utter quietly, "If you at least will go with me on cases again, when I can start them again. I need a doctor, and I don't trust anybody else."

He shakes his head. "No, don't. I can't truly hate you, Sherlock, even if I want to, even if I try to. You're a bloody annoying git sometimes, and right now part of me wants you to sod off, but I can't hate you, not fully. So yeah, I guess I can start doing cases with you again, but it will take a while. A long while. You need to redeem yourself first. I have to forgive you before I can be your colleague again. And I think that should start with me moving back in here, and you cleaning this place up."

I offer the smallest of smiles. "And I will gladly accept those terms, John. Considering the situation, that is more than generous, and I recognize that."

He nods, and stands from his seat on the plastic-covered sofa. He leaves without a word, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding while he moved.

But I am not worried. I feel like everything will work itself out if I give it time, and that is enough for me.


	16. 15: Kisses and Redemption

**A/N: Event/summary chapter.**

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><p>15. Kisses and Redemption<p>

I make a conscious effort to hurry the process of my redemption, because I find that I cannot be myself unless John is relaxed with me once more. So I make the effort in every way imaginable: I clean the flat, I buy the groceries, I help John move back in, I give him my mattress because it is hardly used and therefore like new (whereas his is old and not nearly as comfortable), I tell him once a day that I am sorry, even if I don't always specify what for, and I make him tea and coffee the way he likes it.

And after three months of this, John comes to me in the middle of a violin session and gentle takes my bow from me. "What is it?" I ask him, and John says nothing.

I search him for a clue, but his normally overly expressive face is unreadable. Even his eyes are guarded, and even when I saw John's face as I lay dead on the street, his stoic and stony and lifeless expression still had feeling in his eyes. But not here, not now. He is purposely trying to keep me in suspense, and it's highly effective.

"John?" I venture again, and his eyes are looking back and forth between my eyes, and then, timidly, he brings a hand up to my face and leans up on his toes to kiss me.

Never in my life did I think would have this, receive this. Not from John, not from the one person I wanted it so desperately from.

It takes me a moment to register that my brilliant mind hasn't invented this, and I being to respond. I mold my lips around John's and apply pressure and retreat, and I set down my violin somewhere and feel John reach for my hands, bringing them to his shoulders. I agreeably clasp them behind his neck and bend down so he doesn't have to lean up as much. And I hold him there, and he holds me here, and I am rooted and stable and forgiven without words, and John proves himself once again to be the man I summed him up to be.

When we part, I am breathless and speechless and John understands. He runs fingers through my hair, and it takes a significant amount of self-restraint not to close my eyes and tilt my head back into his hand like a cat. He presses another, smaller, gentler kiss on the corner of my mouth and slowly unlinks my arms from him. Then he moves away, slips on his jacket, and leaves the flat.

I know I am forgiven; I must have redeemed myself, because he wouldn't have been so affectionate otherwise. And I know he must be saying in not so many words, discreetly, that he loves me almost as much as I love him, and that should satisfy me. But why, then, is he leaving? Where is he going?

I can't justly deduce a thing in my current state. So, after a while, I pick up my violin and begin to play. I don't play a familiar musician, nor any song I recognize. I play something new, composing without comprehending, must like I did for Irene Adler. I compose, write it down after getting a grasp for what I'm playing, and I title it _Doctor's Sonata _without thinking. Idly, I wish I knew someone to play an accompaniment on the piano for it, because it would make for the best song I have ever written myself.

I intend to play it for John when he comes home. It takes hours, and he isn't back, and the song isn't perfected, but I play it and play it and pray that he doesn't notice it isn't a traditional piece but instead something of my own making, just for him.

I try not to think about it. I simply wait like a child and preoccupy myself with practicing the new song I can't get out of my head. It's all that I feel for John, all that he has made me feel in those few moments of bliss through physical contact, and all that I mean when I say that I'm sorry for hurting him with my death.


	17. 16: Readjustment and Routine

**A/N: Another summary chapter. **

**The last four chapters will be event chapters, and more toward oneshots than drabbles in length, so wait for them! ;D**

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><p>16. Readjustment and Routine<p>

John doesn't notice that I've written a song for him, but he does enjoy the composure when I play it. He doesn't have an ear for classical music, even after the year and a half we spent together prior to my faked death, so I feel safe.

It takes John and I a while, but we slowly fall into an adjustment to the new development in our relationship, which leads to a routine following my redemption.

Every morning, since I am awake first (usually because I haven't slept much), I make tea for us both. John comes downstairs after his morning shower first thing when he wakes up and makes breakfast. Sometimes I eat. Mostly I drink my tea while John eats, and we share sections of the newspaper to look for a crime that interests me (us), or to see what is currently transpiring in the local area and the world.

After breakfast, I shower, get dressed, and kiss John goodbye before he leaves for work. I read or conduct experiments (I have bought more supplies, as well as taken a few that won't be missed from Bart's) and record the results onto spreadsheets, and surf the Internet or update things on my website (and sometimes I simply go back through John's posts on his blog).

When John comes home, we get take away or he cooks something quick and easy, and he turns on the telly and sometimes I eat or watch with him, and other times I read or type up more data. He will sit closely to me or I will perch myself in his lap, and he will play with my hair or brush kisses on my skin, or I will talk to him and my fingers will idly trace the contours of his chest beneath his shirt. We are comfortable this way.

It's different while we are on a case. Those are the times when I can't eat, can't sleep, am too pumped and loaded, ready to spring at any moment to fly to another location, get another clue, search for something else, connecting all the dots. John keeps me calm, however, with hands touching and shoulders bumping and arms wrapping. He keeps me tethered through the storm of the chase and adrenaline and mystery, and I, in turn, keep him close to me, safe, even through all my tumbling thoughts.

And we go around and around again, weaving in and out of each of these routines, forming habits, and though we have yet to make love or do anything but caress and kiss, I am immensely happy, and prefer it this way, because John and I are finally a team again, but more improved than before.


	18. 17: Informal and Obtuse

**A/N: I wanted to write what all the cool kids were writing, but in my own precious little way.**

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><p>17. Informal and Obtuse<p>

John approaches me one afternoon and asks me what's wrong. I tell him that I don't know what he means; I am perfectly alright. He says no, there is definitely something wrong with me, and when I frown, he offers a smile.

It's been well over a year since our new routine of being lovers has begun, and John and I have settled out and moved well past the biggest burden of pain in our lives. So it surprises me that he thinks there is something wrong, and puzzles me that he's smiling about it.

"John, I fail to see –"

"Being obtuse doesn't suit you, Sherlock," he teases, and soon John is leaning over where I'm perched on my armchair. He touches his forehead to mine and cups my jaw in his hands, his eyes fluttering shut. "Come on. Tell me what's been bothering you lately. I know there's something."

"There's really noth–" I try to insist, but John silences me with a peck on the lips.

He opens his eyes and leans off of my forehead. "Come on, then. Out with it. What have you been thinking about?"

Various things, if I'm to be honest. Sex, marriage, hunger for a new case; not in that order, and some more frequently than the others. I feel a bit guilty about the initial thought; I seem to want sex more and more often, and it's not normal for me. Before, I didn't care about it at all and failed to see the appeal in it, hence everyone's (sadly correct) assumption that I was a virgin. But now that I have had it with someone I care for both physically and emotionally, I desperately ache for that closeness, that sensuality, that passion and lack of reserve. It heightens my senses and dulls them at the same time, and it is both intoxicating and ever enough, and I want it, _oh, _I want it.

And then I think of marriage. I think of the legal benefits John and I would have if we were wed, and the promise to stay with the other for the remainder of our lives being wed would hold. And I think of every way I could ask John, but then I drop the idea of doing it because he might laugh, or ask why it's needed, or might see me as being informal about it, because every way I can think of it would be to directly ask him via face-to-face, text, sticky note, e-mail, letter, or over the phone. I don't know what embellish he would accept, and I don't want it to be unclear or exaggerated otherwise, so I would most likely do it casually, but then he might not think me serious, and in all scenarios, I think he would reject my proposal because it isn't his style, I don't think, to be openly with me, bound to me in that way. It's hardly my own style either, but the benefits outweigh the detriments, and the advantage we already have is that we act like a married couple anyhow, both sexually and domestically, so it shouldn't make a difference if rings are involved.

And, still, always on my mind are new cases that can be brought up. I live for two things: John, and new problems to solve. Not the simple, boring ones, either; I like the exciting, intricate ones. The surprises and the clues and the evidence and the hunt and the _game _of it all, like a giant board of chess with variables and roads less taken in a jumble on the checkered blocks. It's the thrill and challenge and justice of it all that I love, that I crave, and that I long for when there isn't something currently surrounding me.

So a case is what I need, sex is what I want, and marriage is what I wish for. But none of them are bothering me individually; it's the collective of the three that John must be seeing reflected on my face as troubling.

I sigh. "You're the only person who can read me, John. Molly has done it once –" _You look sad when you think he can't see you _"– But you're the soul person in this world who can see even what I don't know I'm projecting consciously."

John smiles reassuringly and touches my hair. "Well, I've had a long time to practice and figure you out, cataloguing any genuine expression I saw when it appeared. Because you are a brilliant and unique actor, Sherlock Holmes, but you can't fool me. I _know_ you, remember?"

"You're the only one who does," I say softly. "Not even my brother knows me. He wouldn't; I haven't given him the chance to, not since we were children, and naturally, I am not the same as I was as a child."

"Naturally," John agrees absently. He peers into my eyes and cocks his head slightly. "So, are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to pry it out of you?"

I sigh again and offer a small smile. "It's nothing major. I only wish for a case." Or sex, but I don't think now's the time. I have repeatedly propositioned John for sex at all the wrong times, during odd moods, spoiling moments. So I have learned to read the situation and ask accordingly, or make a move accordingly. And now is not one of the times to do so. John is trying to be concerned for me, not out to do anything more feral.

(I really only want the proximity and electric charge of the act, not so much the pleasure others seek from it. It sometimes is what I need when we don't have a decent case for long periods of time; I get my adrenaline fix through the rush of sexual stimuli then, and John never seems to mind.)

John frowns. "No, I don't think that's entirely it. I know how bored you get, Sherlock, but you don't look very bored. You still look like you want something else, not just a case, because unless we're on one, you _always _hunger for a case. There's something else, isn't there? Don't bother lying to me; I've gotten used to your lies by now and how they work."

No, I can easily lie to him if I truly need to, because I can lie to anybody if I do it the right way that will suit how they perceive the tells for lies. Even John, who has seen me lie and manipulate witnesses to tell me what I need to know time and time again, I can still do the same to John without his knowing, because I act differently toward others than I do John. But I don't wish to lie. I hate lying to John, because he doesn't deserve it, and he nearly never lies to me. We have trust, and it's precious to me to uphold.

So I look away and tell another third of the three-part truth. "I want sex since there isn't a case." He has two thirds of my troubles, now. I pray he doesn't ask for the final piece, because it is, by far, the most troubling, because it is a thin sheet of ice with pressure on it, waiting to crack or become solid, wavering between the two. If I let it out now, it will surely crack. I need to wait until the right time for it, or I need to never have it come to light at all.

John blinks. "Well, I suppose I could give you that." And he chuckles and leans down to nuzzle my neck for a moment, breath hot and moist, and I close my eyes and wait. John climbs into my chair with me, straddling my legs, arms around me, and I bring my hands to rest on his hips, fingers skimming the top of his arse over his pants. But then he says in my ear, making me shiver from his breath, "But you're still not telling me something, Sherlock. If it were only sex and boredom, you wouldn't be so quiet."

Damn him for knowing me so well. I sigh for a third time and turn my head to look at him. He lifts it and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to spill the beans. I nibble the inside of my lip for a moment, tearing off skin and chewing on it behind the seam of my lips, and then, finally, confess around a swallow, "I want to marry you, John. Make all that we are and have been official. Use our relationship, as it hopefully will always be, to our advantage: legally, medically, and financially. It would simplify so many things, and…" and I pause, because John is staring at me, half ready to get off my lap, I'm sure, and also gaping, his mouth open and jaw slack. Shock. I breathe shakily inward, nerves not being something I'm accustomed to, but not something I'm completely unfamiliar with feeling now and then. "And ensure that neither of us will be alone again."

This last thing is a genuine fear that I have. It's irrational and human and unlike me, but John has changed me in that respect: he has made me require companionship, specifically his. I was always his, whether he knew it or not; since the first day we worked together, I became his to protect and befriend and care for and familiarize and own. And now that I have it, I can't live without it. I've tried to, during the three years I was thought to be deceased, but we both know it hadn't worked out.

After a long enough pause for my mind to think all of this, John slips off of my lap, my chair, and Stands before me. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, of course. I wouldn't bring it up if I wasn't, John." And I say it with my _don't-be-obvious _tone, but inside I am being sincere.

"…Are you insane?"

"You always say that I am, but I assure you that I'm quite sound in my mind," I say with deliberate flatness to my tone.

I feel as though my fear of rejection is coming to life, and I bring my hands together, fingers lacing, and place them in my lap. I don't think John can see, and I hardly know I'm doing it, but my thumbs start to rub together anxiously. I clear my throat. "So, now that it's out in the open, what is your answer?"

John's eyes circle my face, and he still looks shocked. Then, slowly, John's features relax. His lips come back together. And then my doctor does the improbable, and makes me love him even more: he grins broadly, eyes sparkling like a child's on Christmas who has found a mountain of presents, and he rushes forward to embrace me. "Yes, you impossible man! Of course I'll marry you. God, I've been wondering if I would be stupid in asking you myself, if it was too soon or something, but God, I'm glad I was wrong. You read my mind, like you often do, and I'm grateful for that."

And he laughs a bit and kisses me strongly, lovingly, on the mouth. I return the kiss greedily, sucking his bottom lip into my mouth, laving his tongue with mine, and pulling him back into my lap. He grabs a fistful of my hair and tugs, angling my mouth to gain better access, and the kiss becomes something distinctly less ardent and instead much more rough. John takes the reins and attacks my mouth, and I let him. I give him control willingly, and moan incoherently – another rare thing only John is allowed to see, me giving up control and acting so utterly _ordinary _– into his mouth.

Needless to say, my troubles vanish completely, the triangle of issues dissolving into nil as I get the sex I wanted, have a case appear within the week, and go to the courthouse with John (rings bought while out on said case) all by the following weekend.


	19. 18: Hoarding and Giving

**A/N: This is just a weird little idea I had. XD**

* * *

><p>18. Hoarding and Giving<p>

I'm doing an experiment. It's a cruel one, I'll admit, and not only for the subject, but for the scientist as well. Naturally, John is my subject, and I am the scientist.

I am hoarding all of my affection. I am keeping it bottled up, seeing how long it will take until John forces it out of me, and/or I am unable to withhold it any longer. When it becomes too much for him, I will mark the number of hours/days/weeks. When it is too much for me, I will mark that number. I will make five trials of this to get a rough average estimate of how long it is until physical contact is necessary for John, and until it is necessary for me.

The purpose of this is not the results I am looking for. Instead, it is my wondering which of us needs affection the most. They say that it is different for every couple. Some couples can go for weeks without caresses, kisses, or sex, and be just as bonded as they were the last time they intimately touched. For other couples, they need at least a daily occurrence of one, two, or all three types of acts lest their relationship falls apart.

So I am wondering what out limits are. It will be torture by one point, I'm sure, but I need to know. It's a sort of idea I have that I need to know our exact boundaries and limits.

Likewise, I plan on carrying out this process in reverse: giving nothing _but _affection for as much time in sequence as I am capable of to see what it takes until John is tired of me and pushes me away. Moods must be taken into consideration in this experiment, however; I know for a fact that no one – and I am a prime example of someone – likes to be smothered or bombarded with physical contact for long periods of time. Still, I wonder what John's limits are, because he seems the sort who can withstand a great deal of it before it became too much.

Now, onto the start of my first experiment. It is four in the afternoon on the Saturday of June 5th. I will go to John, give him a kiss, and after I break it, I will begin logging the amount of time it takes until he becomes desperate for more affection.

John comes into the room from a shower, his robe around him, his hair wet and tousled, and sprinkles of water clinging under his chin and at the top of his chest and across his neck. I swallow hard and remind myself that I must execute this experiment to know our limits. It's vital in a relationship to know each other's limits, isn't it? Especially now that we are legally bound…

I clear my throat, walk over to where John has seated himself, and use my dominant hand to lift his chin while my other hand rests on my knee as I lean forward. I give John a measured, romantic kiss, and pull away. It's not enough to spark arousal or concern, and not too little to be pointless.

"Good morning to you, too," John looks at me a moment, smiling, and resumes his task of reading the morning paper.

I move away, also smiling, and take my chair to have a sit. And I go about marking the start time on a chart in my computer of the exact minute since our lips parted and my hand left his chin. And so it begins.

XXX

About an hour later, John comes up to me while I'm standing over the kitchen table, working on lesser experiments, ones dealing with mold and fungi located on clothing left by dead bodies dumped in natural places, like parks and wooded areas, to help narrow down any bodies that might spring up in future cases.

John means to wrap his arms around my chest from behind, I think, and possibly rest his chin on my shoulder or cheek against my back, but I get up and move animatedly around the table, acting as though I am in a hurry to collect something I've left to stew in a petri dish.

My husband frowns a bit, but doesn't seem too terribly perturbed. He shrugs it off and leaves me to work, and I am relieved.

XXX

"Sherlock? Aren't you coming to bed?" John asks me late that night, around ten o'clock.

I shake my head, pretending to be absorbed in a book about the effects of various common household chemicals used in poisons. "Not tired," I say simply. In actuality, I am tired (because when we have a case, I can stay awake for days on end, taking mere micronaps if necessary; but without a case, I feel sluggish and sleepy because I'm so bored), but I think I will doze on the couch tonight. I can't cuddle during this experiment; that is one of the highest forms of affection. And sex is out of the question, because that is nothing _but _physical contact.

John sighs. "Suit yourself," he says, and he seems disappointed. I have been neglecting him all day, after all. I've spoken to him plenty, of course, and given him eye contact, but this experiment requires no more than a passing brush of contact, and I think he's already starting to miss it.

Six hours and counting. So far, so tolerable.

XXX

Twenty-six hours and counting, and I am getting horribly fidgety. Part of the hours, thankfully, had been spent while John was sleeping or I was sleeping or he was at work or we were reading, but now that it has been over a day and I am aware of it, I am getting more than a tad hungry for John's touch, which is odd, because I thought he would be the one to cave first.

Then again, I'm _counting, _so that could contribute to this urgency I have. I make a note of it on my Excel document and continue the tally.

XXX

Four days and three hours since that kiss, and John is getting suspicious. I am antsy, we did a case that took up the past two days, but it wasn't enough of a distraction for John, because he's catching on.

"You know, you didn't hold my hand in the cab, and you pushed me away when I scooted close to rest my hand on your thigh. And then, even after solving the case, we didn't so much as hug to celebrate. What's the deal, Sherlock? Have I made you angry? Because if I have, I ought to know!"

And he seems irritated and hurt, and I feel awful about it. I keep my face composed as I look nonchalantly at the final police record of the case, scanning it for error and putting in my final notes for it. "You haven't done anything to upset me," I tell him. I don't need to fake any honesty in my tone; it's the truth.

"Then why do you keep moving away when I go to touch you?" John says, and his voice is quieter.

I hide a twitch reminiscent of a wince behind a turn of a page in the file. I can't tell him; it will ruin the experiment. I need to know his natural limit. And this is only the first trial; I need to see if the limit will vary too much, and I can throw out this first period. It's all very detailed, and too promising to ruin.

I subtly and quickly lick my dry lips. "Have I? I hadn't realized I've been moving away. I apologize, John, if you've misunderstood my actions. I'm not avoiding you."

"No? Then kiss me. Right now."

"Oh, I don't feel like it; I'm busy attending to this record," I remark as casually as I can. My acting skills are being used in full effect here, because I would like nothing more than to kiss him. Four days and three hours is a bit too long for me, I'm apprehending quickly. I make a mental note to later add to my spreadsheet that, for the first trial at least, four days and three hours is long enough for John to notice a lack of anything-beyond-casual contact between us.

"Fine," John says tightly. "Then when you're done. If you really haven't meant to be avoiding me, then I need you to prove it."

He won't let this go, will he? But John's stubbornness (that is as strong as mine) is partly why I love him. A tiny smirk tugs at my lips, pulling in one direction for a split second. I drop it and turn to him. "Agreed. You'll get a kiss once I'm finished."

And I hate that I have to lie to him. I'm hoping that, after I drag this out as long as possible, go on my laptop to add a few notes under the cover that it's for these records, and he eats dinner and readies himself for bed, he'll forget about it and I can gather more data to see how long he truly can last, suspicions aside.

XXX

I am able to complete my tasks, marking that four days and three and a quarter hours is John's limit until he asks for affection, but not his limit until he requires it, and mark that I begin to deeply wish for it around three days in.

As it turns out, I can't even pretend to still be busy, because John gets annoyed. At four days, five hours, and eleven minutes, John grunts a curt, "That's it, Sherlock," and gets up from where he started to stare at me from his armchair, grabs me, turns my roughly toward him, and grinds his lips down onto mine.

I return it fervently and tangle my fingers into his short hair, short nails scraping gently down his scalp, and he groans into my mouth.

We kiss and grope over clothing for a good fifteen minutes before John announces with swollen lips that he needs to go to bed. I nod and softly wish him goodnight, watching him leave.

And so I have John's Trial 1 limit. And following the exact minute he leaves me, I mark down the start of Trial 2.

XXX

Trial 2 lasts for three days, ten hours, and thirty-seven minutes. I'm the one who broke it this time. I saw John walk in from a drizzle, hair soaked, clothing smelling of fresh rain and cotton, and his fingers white with cold, his body shivering. So, of course, I felt compelled to go over and strip him, hold him, warm him up. And I gladly gave into it.

XXX

Trial 3 lasts surprisingly for five days, eighteen hours, and roughly forty-nine minutes. But there was a rather lengthy and enthralling case involved for a majority of that time span, so we could hardly catch our breaths or shut our eyes or grab a bite to eat (many of those things being John's needs, not exactly my own), let alone show affection for each other.

When the case was finished, however, I unintentionally fell asleep on John in the taxi ride home, head drooped onto his shoulder, hand settling up against his thigh. I was stirred away enough to be lead into John's bed, and when I awoke, I was stripped out of my coat and scarf and gloves and shoes and socks, and the top three buttons of my shirt were undone, and my belt was removed. John had his arm draped across my stomach, and was snoozing beside me, half under the sheets, with his head tucked between my shoulder blades where we were positioned on our sides.

So I ended the trial from when we entered the cab, since I knew the time then. And I began Trial 4 after I slipped out of his bed and went to use the restroom.

XXX

Trial 4 lasts all but twenty-seven minutes. When I try to avoid John after he wakes up, he pursues me inch for inch, even as I give excuses. He mentions how we haven't had sex in two weeks, and leans in extremely close without touching me, whispering into my ear a dream he had before he woke, and takes my hand and guides it to the evidence of the dream, and I gasp and feel a spark of arousal and have no choice but to follow him back to bed.

XXX

Trial 5, the final trial, lasts a painful eight days. Part of this is due to John being called away to help his sister for five days, leaving me to myself in the flat with nothing but my spreadsheets and old cases to look over and dwell upon.

I talk to my old friend the Skull and sigh often. I wrap my arms around myself, fiddle with my wedding band, and glance often as the few photos of John I have around the flat.

When he returns, the eight days, six hours, and two minutes marking the end of the trial come into being, because I embrace him immediately and shower him with kisses, and he laughs and holds me tight and tells me that it was only five days, can I really miss him that much? But he forgets that we haven't touched in eight, so I shrug.

"Yes, I can miss you that much. It's too quiet and dull without you," I say, because while he was gone, even my violin couldn't drown out the silence left by the lack of tiny sounds John makes on a daily basis. His breathing, the shuffling of his clothing, the metallic pop of the toaster for his toast, the subsequent clinking of his knife in the jam jar, his teacups, his snores, his drumming fingers, his padded gait across the rugs and flooring, his voice. All of it suddenly gone, and his warm body with it, and it was too much for me to take.

The second I shower him with greetings, I end the fifth trial of my Hoarding experiment, but I begin the first trial of my Giving experiment.

XXX

Trial 1 of the Giving experiment lasts all of three hours and fifty-four minutes. I cling to John the entire time, touching and petting and kissing and lingering, hovering, all around him for as long as I can. For some of that time, of course (about half an hour of it), we have sex, but for the rest of it, I make sure that I don't break contact for longer than five minutes at a time.

After this span of nearly four hours, John shrugs me off and tells me that, while it's nice to be missed, he's tired and wants to go to bed, so I better stop fussing over him. I nod and mark the time on my new data sheet in my Excel document.

XXX

The following day, I begin Trial 2 of the Giving session. At one point, while I'm stretched out on the couch, John comes over to sit with me. He puts my feet in his lap, opens up a novel, and steadies it with one hand while his other mindlessly rubs over the skin of my ankle.

Well, that's not good enough. Need more contact for it to be a trial. So I crawl over to him and sit on his legs, my calves lined up perfectly with his thighs, my feet hooked over the edge of the couch beside his knees.

John raises a brow. "Sherlock?" he questions, and I send him a quick smile before ducking my head to kiss and suckle and breathe along his neck.

John gasps, dropping the novel he had meant to read, and instantly has his hands on me.

We proceed to make out and fondle like hormonal teenagers for over an hour, and then we're making love again, and John is as sensitive and responsive as ever, and I love watching him. Afterward, we cuddle and trace imaginary lines on each other's bodies for another good hour or so, and in total, it's four hours and seven minutes until John pulls away, getting dressed again, and says that he has to make dinner.

I follow him to the kitchen and hover around him, touching his arms and back and planting stray kisses on him here and there, and that lasts for another thirty-five minutes while he cooks.

Then, while we eat, I use my feet and toes under the table to touch his feet, stroke his ankle, and pet his calf. John smiles and laughs, claiming that its ticklish and that I should stop, so after ten minutes of that, I take his free hand in mine from across the table and play with his fingers instead.

John's catching on, now, after four hours and forty-six minutes of contact, he asks, "What's with you today? You're all over me. It's not like you. I know I was gone for a while there, helping out Harry, but I've been home for a day now. Usually you love interest."

"I'll never lose interest in you, John. We _are_ wed," I remind him in my _this-is-obvious_ tone, and he laughs again.

"No, it's not that. I meant that you don't normally, I dunno, touch me for this long. What gives?" he wants to know around a bite.

I retract my hand and nod slowly. "You are often much more observant than I give you credit for," I comment indifferently. I shrug and look like it's nothing in particular that's causing this. "But it isn't for any particular reason. I just feel like touching you right now."

John seems to accept that, so I go back to caressing his hand and stroking the hair along his forearm, feeling it brush under my fingertips so repeatedly that I begin to lose feeling in them of the true texture; it becomes like one sensation of fuzziness and no longer of individual hairs.

So another hour of contact is added, plus a minute or so, and then John says, "Enough, Sherlock! I need to be able to move on my own without you crowding me, you know. I have to use the bathroom!"

And so I mark down Trial 2 for five hours and fifty-three minutes.

XXX

Trial 3 follows on the next day, and doesn't last very long because John has a lot of work to do, and I wind up not seeing him for a majority of the day. So I put it down for the hour and twenty-eight minutes it lasts for and move on.

XXX

By the fourth trial, which lasts a good nine hours and six minutes because of gratuitous amounts of lying down and touching in our sleepy haze and dreaming states, bare skin of our chests overlapping or brushing, and hands ghosting over ribs and hips and legs and arms and necks and collarbones, all very intimate and quiet and private and without sex, John wonders aloud why we can't always be like this. Why, before, I would avoid him for days on end, and now, he can't seem to be rid of me.

I don't comment on the matter and instead nuzzle into his neck and tell him to sleep. After another four hours, making thirteen in total of direct contact, John breaks away and goes about his usual routines.

And so ends Trial 4.

XXX

The final trial of this Giving experiment lasts no longer than twenty minutes. I am probably poorly timing it, and that's why it doesn't last very long, because John is more than a bit distracted. Lestrade presented us with a new case today, but I have no interest in it (double homicide, but clearly one of those jealousy cases where the woman kills her husband and his lover and asks her sister to give her a good alibi and help her clean up the evidence linking back to her, making it all seem very complicated when it is, in fact, so incredibly straightforward that I wonder if the police nowadays even know how to conduct an investigation anymore, or if they have become too reliant on me).

John, however, is keenly interested, and is trying to be clever and come up with theories, and I use this as an excuse to brush them off and call him adorable (because he _is_ being cutely idiotic, thinking there is more to this case than there is), snuggling against his back with my arms around him, dusting my lips and eyelashes across the nap of his neck, making him shudder.

But John doesn't appreciate it after those twenty minutes, and elbows me to get off of him and let him ring Lestrade and get this settled without my help, since I seem so convinced against John's ideas. And I can't help but argue the facts to him, trying to make him see the truth, and we get into a bit of a disagreement.

So he storms off and I'm left to huff at the flat, and really, that trial hadn't gone well at all.

So I make a note about moods and cases and go about determining the average of each experiment, making the final notes, and preparing to write up the conclusion of the data.

XXX

In summary, I can keep my affections to myself for an average of four days, nine point eight hours, and twenty-five point two minutes without John getting worried or overly needy. However, I can supply my affections for up to four point nine hours, on average, without John complaining in the least.

This is incredibly valuable information to know, and John never needs to know that I know it.

But at least now I can return to my usual displays of affection, and perform them when they suit us both the best.


	20. 19: Conversation and Peaches

**A/N: Only one more to go! Thank you all for your support!**

* * *

><p>19. Conversation and Peaches<p>

"Sherlock? I know you like your experiments, but what place do these teeth have in the peach jar? I went for the peaches, but all I found were _these _sitting in their juice instead."

"I wanted to truly test the breakdown sugars have on the enamel. It might come in handy for the dental records of children over time, or to determine if an adult had a sweet-tooth or not. You never know what will come up, so I make it my duty to test and theorize everything."

Sighing. "…I understand that, I suppose, but where did the rest of the peaches go? Please tell me you ate them. I didn't want them to go to waste; Mrs. Hudson made them herself."

"Oh, they didn't. Look in the oven. I've just put it in, or else you would have smelled it by now."

Frowning. "…What could be in the –" Opening, peering inside. "Oh! Sherlock, you made _cobbler?_"

Shrugging. "Peach cobbler seemed like the right thing to make out of peaches that otherwise have no use. And aside from that, I wanted to try baking. It's very precise and mathematical and chemical, which I enjoy."

"I… I can honestly say that I'm speechless, Sherlock."

Smugly, "I have that effect on you anyhow, John."

"Yes, well…" Laughter, "I just never thought you'd be the one to bake or cook _anything, _really."

"I try everything once. And this time I had reason."

"Well, yeah, I guess you did. Can't waste something Mrs. Hudson jarred herself just because you want the fluid and jar for something else."

"Not only that."

"No? What else, then?"

"Honestly, John, I know you are forgetful and I get lost in my work and thoughts at times, but even I know what today is. Don't you?"

"Hmm?"

"…John. It's our anniversary. I baked you peach cobbler as a humble gift for our _anniversary._"

"What! No way! Is it that day already? Strange, I could have sworn that was next week…"

Hurt. "No, I'm sure it's today." Pause. "Have you really forgotten?"

Biting back a grin. "I must have… But, oh, then why did I buy this?" Takes something out of a hiding place beneath a stack of papers.

Gasps, "John!"

"Happy anniversary, Sherlock." Kiss. "I hope you like it. Took me hours on the computer to find something like it, and this turned out to be better than I'd hoped."

"I never even spotted anything related to shopping on your browser history. Did you learn to clear everything, even your cookies and search tags, John?"

"I did, just to keep it a surprise. And I waited here every day for the mail to come to make sure I could snag it before you saw it."

"I never even suspected." Gives box a shake. Nothing rattles, hardly clanks. "I can't even begin to guess like I normally can. What have you done to it?"

"Wrapped it like a pro so nothing shifted around. Now go ahead, Sherlock; open it. I want to see your face, and if you like it or not."

Open. Box contains perfect 3-D replica of the human brain, labeled and color-coded and able to be taken apart and put together again. "…This. This is… utterly perfect, John."

"Is it really?"

"Most decidedly perfect, yes." Another kiss. "I love you."

Breathless chuckling. "I love you, too. And I can't wait to try your cobbler."

"Even if it is bland or burnt or runny or dry?"

"Even then," kiss, kiss. "I will eat anything you make just because you actually bothered to be 'dully domestic' enough to make it. As long as it's not part of an experiment or Sweeney Todd'ed. You made sure none of those teeth got in there, didn't you?"

Chuckling. "No, John, nothing dangerous or experimental in the least. I was very thorough."

"Good. I am really looking forward to it, then!"

"…However…"

"Yes?"

"I did add an extra ingredient that wasn't called for in the recipe."

"And what was that, Sherlock?"

"…Rum. Mrs. Hudson said that it makes it taste much better."

"That's fine, Sherlock. Fantastic, in fact! You went to Mrs. Hudson for advice?"

Nods. "She was most helpful with it, and flattered that I was using her jarred peaches. She knows that it is our anniversary dessert, but she would like us to bring her a slice while it's still warm."

"Oh, we will! But do you know what?"

"What, John?"

"I'm going to run out to the market. I'll be back in two shakes."

"Why? What for?"

"Ice cream! You must have vanilla ice cream with warm cobbler; it's heavenly."

"…Alright. I trust you. See you soon, John."

"Yeah, see you soon."

"And, John?"

"Yes?"

"Be safe."

Caught off-guard; never heard that before. Smiles. "I will be. I love you."

"Love you."

Door closes. Scent of cobbler begins to fill the flat. Sherlock inhales, hums, and sinks into the sofa, snuggled up with his new brain. Touches it.

He needs an anatomically correct heart to go with it, now.


	21. 20: Love and Modernization

20. Love and Modernization

Jointly, John and I are the perfect example of modernization, love, and modern love combined:

We drive one another up the walls,

We constantly send texts,

We borrow each other's computers,

We speak through Skype calls on occasion,

We don't always get dressed in the mornings after nights spent tangled and naked,

We forget to buy milk,

We get into plenty of arguments,

We make up eventually,

We're married but both male,

We are compatible in nearly every way without even trying to fit,

We sit and laugh about the silliest of things sometimes,

We laugh at all the wrong times (at a crime scene; in Buckingham Palace; etcetera),

We steal longing glances at each other,

We touch frequently in public without caring about what others think,

It took us a long while to realize we both wanted the same thing,

And took us just as long to get together;

We're outside the norm but somehow perfectly an example of it,

We function in our own way;

John blogs,

I have my own website,

Our cell phones are relatively up to date with current technology,

We buy each other things now and then (John more than me; I don't shop much),

Music fuels me,

John owns a gun,

John was in the current conflict in a faraway place (in this case, Afghanistan),

I am the only man in the world with my job title (Consulting Detective, thank you),

And, last but not least,

Through all of the hardships, criminal struggles, lies, truths, pains, fights, family, co-workers, friends, strangers, clients, cases, ignorance, dry spells, experiments, temptations, technology, questions, guesses, puzzles, misunderstandings, and joys, we remain with one another.

We stay, even when we don't have to, and even when we leave because we want to, we always come back because we have to.

And that is precisely how we like it.

And as far as my knowledge extends, that is precisely how modern relationships should (and do) function, in one way or another.

"…Sherlock? Did you say something?"

I smile.

"No, nothing. I'm just explaining something to Mr. Skull on the mantelpiece."

"I thought I had replaced that thing? Whatever it is, you can run it by me, you know."

Smiling wider.

"I know, John. I know. But this is something for the vaults of my Mind Palace, a memento of sorts, so I needed to say it aloud, but it isn't something you need be bothered with," I explain swiftly as I turn and leave the living room, headed for my room, where John sits on the left side of the bed, looking up from his book.

"Well, alright, then. Sleeping tonight?"

"Just for a bit," I nod as I slip off my robe and slide into bed. The sheets are cool, but soon warm from my body heat combined with John's. He smiles over at me and settles down into the pillows more, returning to his reading.

"I'm going to leave the lamp on for a while longer, if that's fine with you. I want to finish this chapter tonight."

"Go right ahead," I insist, rolling onto my side to face him. I slide a hand under the sheets and brush my fingers across his thigh, running them up over his hip and under his pajama shirt. He squirms, scolding me for distracting him, but I simply close my eyes and keep my hand there, pressed to the warmth of his belly.

"You nutter," John whispers affectionately. He frees a hand from his book to raise my hand on him to his lips. He replaces it where I had it and resumes reading. When he's finally finished, I hear John shut off the lamp, set aside his book and reading glasses (they make distinct thuds and clicks), and lies down, presumably facing me, because he's bringing me close, and I can feel his lips on my forehead. "Love you. Goodnight."

But I don't reply. I'm already drifting off, my breathing slowing to a nice, even pace. John wraps an arm around me and rests his chin atop my head, tucking me into him. I sigh contentedly and wonder, vaguely, when I got so accustomed to having this nearly every night, and why, even more vaguely, I never thought to have this comfort before, why it seemed so useless to me before.

But I already know the answer to the latter curiosity: It's because I've never had John in my life before.

* * *

><p><em>What are you holding out for?<em>

_What's always in the way?_

_Why so damn absent-minded?_

_Why so scared of romance?_

_This modern love breaks me_

_This modern love wastes me_


End file.
